


Thought versus action.

by erzvolnes



Series: Molly & Caleb aka Disaster Dads [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: First Kiss, Intimacy, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 14:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14059185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erzvolnes/pseuds/erzvolnes
Summary: “It has been a...complicated few weeks.” He says. “With...this, I mean.” He gestures with his chin towards Molly, and Mollymauk can’t look away.Surely Caleb wasn’t talking about them. Not that there is a ‘them’, he corrects himself quickly, but if there were, and the events of the last month or so involving the pair of them were the complications that were obviously occupying his thoughts as much as they’d occupied Mollymauk’s, then maybe-He very quickly grabs that thread of thought and stops it dead in its tracks.





	Thought versus action.

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this was "molly the moron" so make of that what you will.
> 
> Hi! I'm back on my bullshit. Please enjoy. 
> 
> As always I love feedback!! hmu @ mollymeek.tumblr.com

His wounds take a long while to fully heal. Caleb’s stitches were clumsy and unpracticed, but they do help, preventing his injuries from re-opening at least. He feels awful for a few days, sick and feverish from blood loss, but he isn’t dead, and that’s really all he can ask for. They’re back to minor work for the most part, which Molly supposes he should be grateful for; it’s not as exciting as he’d like, but it puts less strain on his healing body. 

 

Sure, Jester could heal him almost instantly, but-

 

Caleb put the effort into sewing him up, and that feels significant somehow. Getting stitched up by somebody who doesn’t have the faintest idea what they’re doing is a long, painful process, and Mollymauk isn’t going to let their mutual suffering go to waste. It’s slow, and awful, but Mollymauk is stubborn, and reading cards is easy enough to do without straining himself. 

 

Plus, there’s something about nursing his wounds that feels nostalgic. He deigns not to think too hard about it.

 

It takes a number of days before he can move freely without wincing, and a week or so later he has Yasha remove the cotton threads from his skin. She’s done it for him before, and so he is comfortable to recline back on her cot while she splits the stitches with the tip of a blade, pulling them loose quickly enough that the catch of fabric on his healing skin is barely more than a sharp sting. 

 

“These stitches are a fucking mess, Molly.” She says, with a vague tone of disapproval, and Mollymauk throws one arm over his eyes, hissing through his teeth as she pulls on an especially tender thread. 

 

“You can thank Caleb for that.” He says, and hears Yasha hold her breath as she brings the tip of the knife to his skin once again. The soft sound of thread snapping follows, and she sighs deeply. Mollymauk’s tail finds the warmth of her side and curls against her, as if the contact will placate her. She does care for him, in her way, and he knows her annoyance is born of worry more than anything else.

 

“He was just so eager to help.” Molly explains, wrinkling his nose at the pained bite in his voice. “Bought spirits to sterilize with and everything. I could hardly have turned him down after that.” 

 

Yasha sits back, pats his flank to signify that she’s done, and then slaps him sharply on the hip for good measure. He lashes out weakly with his spare arm, but it doesn’t connect and falls back to his side. 

 

“You’ve got it bad, Tealeaf.” She says, not unkindly, but perhaps warningly, and Mollymauk presses his forearm into his eyes hard enough that colours bloom in the darkness. 

 

“I’ve got no idea what you mean.”

 

_

 

The following morning, the lot of them pile onto a cart headed for fuck-knows in the middle of nowhere; some job Beau had picked up that detailed acts caused by a horrific monster,  _ or _ a group of rowdy youths. At this point it was equally likely to be either.

 

“Scorched grass and mysterious symbols etched into trees aren’t always ominous.” Mollymauk says to the group as a whole, voice raised over the rattle of wheels on stone. “Teenagers get up to some weird shit when they’ve got time and booze on their hands.” Fjord looks over his shoulder to squint at him.

 

“You think teenagers are burning whole clearings to the ground?” Fjord asks, skeptical, and Mollymauk grins.

 

“Common practice when I was that age. Wasn’t a real party without some petty arson.” 

 

Fjord makes a sound between a laugh and a scoff, and turns his attention back to the pair of horses pulling the group’s collective weight. Jester bumps her shoulder against Mollymauk’s too deliberately to be a side effect of the uneven terrain. 

 

“But what if it  _ is _ like, just teenagers or something.” She says, audibly pouting. “We haven’t killed something cool in  _ forever. _ ”  She throws her arm up for dramatic flair. “We probably wouldn’t get paid for catching them or  _ anything _ .”

 

Beau reaches over to pat Jester on the arm, leaning awkwardly over her staff to do so. 

 

“Aw, don’t worry, we can totally still fight teenagers,” she says, reassuringly, and Mollymauk rolls his eyes.

 

“No we can’t.”

 

“Not legally, at least.” Adds Caleb, and Mollymauk lets him have that one without arguing over morality versus legality. He pulls his coat a little tighter over himself, tucking it over his bent knees to protect from the chill. The days had gotten considerably colder as winter approached, and while there was likely a few weeks left of tolerable climate, he could tell the group was starting to struggle with the temperature, especially during travel when there was little to protect them from the windchill. 

 

Beau had managed to wedge herself between Yasha and the far edge of the cart, and looked far too pleased with herself for somebody who was probably getting friction burn and splinters with each bump in the road. Jester, more wisely, was making the most of Mollymauk’s oversized coat and was warming her feet beneath the tails of it, toes tucked up against Molly’s calves. 

Caleb sat alone. He had tried to read for a time before the movement had made him too dizzy to focus on the words, and trying too hard made him sick. Mollymauk would have assumed Nott would stay at his side, especially given the cold, but she sat up front with Fjord, both of them tending to the horses and keeping them on track. The goblin had proven unexpectedly proficient at handling them, and with Fjord’s additional expertise, travel was as smooth as could be expected. 

 

They continued uneventfully for a few hours, enough time for the sun to dip below the treeline and their breath to begin fogging in the air. Their drivers wordlessly steer them into the next available clearing they pass, and by that time the sky is alight with the reds and yellows of sunset, and setting camp becomes the priority. The horses remain hitched to the cart as they spread bedrolls and blankets, and set a fire in the pre-existing pit of rock and ash that signifies this is a well-used spot for travellers before them. 

 

They make a cosy circle around the fire, the toes of their bedrolls as close as they can safely get without risking burning them to death in their sleep. Nott, who seems to feel the cold more than any of them, immediately burrows beneath the pile of blankets closest to her, bundling them around her shivering body, her little wind-flushed face peering over the top. Fjord clears his throat, unbuckling his armour. 

 

“Anybody mind seein’ to the horses before we settle in?” He asks, and Mollymauk nods. He’s been on the road a while, he can handle the cold for a few extra minutes. 

 

The horses seem unaffected by the chill, sweating from their day of work and exhaling great gouts of steam with each breath. He smooths his hands down the side of the chestnut mare, her fur tacky and hot, gleaming amber in the firelight. He unhitches her efficiently, the muscle memory of the chore taking over, and it takes him only a minute to slide the metal bit from between her teeth and lead her a dozen feet away from their camp, sheltered from the elements. 

 

He ropes her to a stake and leaves her to graze, and returns to the gelding. His grey coat is dappled with sweat, spittle foaming in the corners of his mouth and Mollymauk clucks his tongue in pity. He’ll have to have a word with the rest of the group about going a little easier on the poor buggers. He tends to the second horse just as easily as the first, and leaves them both in the safety of their seclusion. 

 

They eat quickly, eager to get into the warmth of their bedrolls for the night, and end up arguing over who will take first watch for a good minute before Yasha volunteers herself, gathering her supplies and setting about tending to her blade while everybody else tucks themselves beneath their piles of blankets and furs, slowly letting sleep take them as the last hint of sunlight finally disappears from the sky. 

 

_

When Yasha wakes him to take his turn on watch, the moon is high and full, their little camp near-silent beyond the faint sounds of his companions breathing and insects clicking and chirping in the grass just past the treeline. The wind has settled enough that their fire has warmed the air around them to almost comfortable, and he adds more fuel just to make sure it keeps burning until morning. 

 

The wood they’d gathered isn’t quite ideal; too green and not dry enough to burn as well as it could. It spits and cracks, spitting little embers into the grass surrounding the pit, and Mollymauk makes sure to bank the perimeter with ash, lest he accidentally set one of his friends aflame. 

 

Out of habit, he takes the time to look over each of his friends’ sleeping forms. His eyes dart absent-mindedly to each face and limb that isn’t covered, doing an automatic headcount just to ensure that everyone is safe and accounted for. There’s no visible sign of Nott, besides the goblin-shaped mound close to the foot of her pile of blankets, and Mollymauk can’t help a smile as his eyes skim over the empty bedroll beside her, to Jester, whose limbs are thrown out in all directions to the point she may as well not have any blankets at all. 

 

He pauses. 

 

Empty bedroll.  _ Caleb.  _

 

His eyes dart back to Caleb’s spot in their little camp, at the thrown-aside blankets, the supplies left behind at the bedside. He feels confusion and panic begin to build in his throat, and spins on his heel to examine the rest of the clearing as if he’ll find him hiding in the shadows .

 

Yasha would have seen if something had happened. If it was anything to worry about she would have woken him sooner. So Caleb must have left on his own. 

 

Somehow the thought doesn’t soothe his nerves, but it’s a start. 

 

His heart beats like a moth against his sternum, and he shuts his eyes, forces himself to listen over the noise of it, for anything he missed before, a sign that Caleb was still  _ here _ at least. Silence for a moment, followed by another, and another. Mollymauk waits.

 

He hears a horse nicker softly, the sound of a tail whipping against a flank, a soft murmur of what could be a voice, and he’s moving forwards before he even has the time to think about it. He brushes past branches and brush, emerging into the glade where he staked the horses. The chestnut mare is still, standing asleep, and he looks past her to the gelding. 

 

The horse is nosing at Caleb’s tightly-buttoned coat, lipping at the ragged lapels and Caleb cups his hand over the gelding’s velvety muzzle, rubbing his thumb through the soft whiskers between its nares. He doesn’t smile, but he seems peaceful, eyes soft and liquid in the bare moonlight, and Mollymauk feels the worry drain from him like a physical weight. 

The horse notices him before Caleb does, looking back as he enters the small clearing, and Caleb follows the perked ears and curious gaze, squinting through the low-light until he identifies Mollymauk in the shadows. His hands drop, slipping into his pockets, and he speaks in hushed tones with the roughness of having recently woken. 

 

“Ah, I didn’t wake you, I hope?”

 

Mollymauk approaches quietly, mind still a little soft around the edges from sleep, and shakes his head, running a hand up the gelding’s flank and back as he goes, feeling the skin flinch beneath his cold touch. 

 

“My turn on watch.” Mollymauk says, and Caleb makes a sound of acknowledgement, using his pocketed hands to clutch his coat a little tighter around his middle. “Surprised to see you up, though.” He says, and they are still a horse-length apart, but he sees Caleb’s throat move as he swallows, the slight upward pitch of his eyebrows. “I don’t need an explanation,” Molly adds, scratching his fingers through the fine hair on the horses’ belly. “Not if you don’t want to give one, I mean. S’just odd, is all.”

 

Caleb opens his mouth, closes it again, looks up to watch the last remaining fall leaves flutter in the scarce breeze. He clears his throat and doesn’t look at Mollymauk as he speaks. 

 

“It has been a...complicated few weeks.” He says. “With... _ this _ , I mean.” He gestures with his chin towards Molly, and Mollymauk can’t look away. 

 

Surely Caleb wasn’t talking about  _ them. _ Not that there  _ is _ a ‘them’, he corrects himself quickly, but if there  _ were _ , and the events of the last month or so involving the pair of them were the complications that were obviously occupying his thoughts as much as they’d occupied Mollymauk’s, then maybe-

 

He very quickly grabs that thread of thought and stops it dead in its tracks. 

 

“Oh?” He says, and it sounds convincingly cool even to himself. “Complicated... _ good? _ Or complicated bad?” He grins, and sees a flash of Caleb’s teeth as he dips his head to hide his own smile. 

 

“Just complicated.” He replies, “Complicated enough to keep me up, whatever that means.” 

 

Mollymauk inches closer, runs his hand through the short bristles of mane at the horses’ withers. The gelding, soothed by their joint affections, is beginning to doze, muzzle resting gently against Caleb’s shoulder. 

 

“Looks like you’ve made a friend.” He says, more softly than he means to, and Caleb breathes out a laugh that wrinkles the corners of his eyes.

“I suppose I have.” He raises a hand, brushes the horses’ forelock out of its eyes and flattens it down its nose with his fingertips. His voice is just as soft as Mollymauk’s. “They’re quite beautiful, aren’t they?” 

 

Mollymauk hums in agreement, running his hand up the muscled length of the horses’ neck before dropping it to his side. He rubs his fingers together, feels them slightly tacky with the grime that builds up eventually on all ungroomed horses. He brushes his palms off on the front of his coat. 

 

“Smart, too,” He says. “Smarter than most people give them credit for, anyway.” 

 

Caleb finally looks back at him, and seems momentarily surprised to see him so much closer than he was previously. His gaze meets Molly’s for a long moment or two, and his teeth scrape his lower lip in a movement that signifies nothing but apprehension. His hand has stilled, resting in a nest of horse fur, and his fingers tighten just barely when he speaks. 

 

“I am not good at this.” He says, wary and warning. 

 

Mollymauk supposes they’re talking about  _ them _ now.

 

“I know.” He says, and Caleb takes a deep breath. 

 

He seems to be wrestling with himself the same way Mollymauk was over a week ago, watching Caleb from across the table, frustrated and conflicted. This is...well, Mollymauk doesn’t know what  _ this _ is. The strange, distant intimacy they’ve been caught in since that night in Molly’s room, since the kiss Caleb pressed to his forehead, since he took a needle and thread in his hands and tried to hide the tremble as he sewed Mollymauk’s fucking body closed. 

 

Caleb might not be good at this, but Mollymauk is, and he has _ no idea _ what they’re doing. He steps closer, close enough into Caleb’s space for it to be obviously deliberate. He feels like Caleb doesn’t do well with subtlety, and so the way he slips his hand into Caleb’s pocket to draw it out and lace their fingers loosely is about as subtle as a fireball to the face. 

 

He’s just testing the waters, putting out feelers, seeing what  _ this _ is. Caleb’s hands are very warm against his, and his fingertips squeeze briefly against the back of Mollymauk’s knuckles, and this feels... _ close. _ Feels like it could be  _ something _ , and that doesn’t worry Mollymauk as much as much as he’d assumed it might. 

 

He looks up and finds Caleb’s eyes already on his, lips parted, eyes wide and shiny. 

 

“Is this,” Mollymauk starts, tightens his grip briefly, eyes darting to Caleb’s mouth unintentionally, but tellingly. “Is it, I mean-”

 

“It’s alright.” Caleb rasps out, though he still looks just the barest bit frantic. His eyes dart suddenly, rapidly about as if they’re being watched, and he takes a step back, but not out of Mollymauk’s space. The grip Caleb has on his hand doesn’t loosen, and he pulls Mollymauk with him into the shade of the trees. It occurs to Mollymauk that if he’s feeling a little exposed right now, a little vulnerable, Caleb probably feels like a raw nerve. 

 

Caleb, with his layers and layers, leading Mollymauk into the safety of an enclosed space as if it will shield him, afford him the protection his mental walls can’t right now. Something about the slightly stricken look on Caleb’s face breaks something small and aching in Mollymauk and he lets himself be led. 

 

They stop beneath the mottled shadow of a near-bare tree and Caleb releases Mollymauk’s hands, slips his hands into his pockets, draws them out again, clenches them into fists at his sides. Molly reaches out to hold his wrists, not stilling him, but redirecting his attention.

 

“You sure you’re okay?” He asks, and Caleb nods.

 

“Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be-” He sighs, shakes his head faintly. “I have not...done this, for a long time.” He slips his hands through Mollymauk’s, adjusts his grip to press his thumbs into Molly’s palms. 

 

“This?” Molly asks, hoping for clarification, and Caleb shrugs. There’s a very faint flush on his cheeks, on his neck above his shirtcollar. 

 

“This.” He says, and Mollymauk supposes that’s the most information he’ll get. 

 

“Well,” Molly says, barely a breath above a whisper. He cups Caleb’s hand in his own, guides it up to the side of his face just below the curve of his horn. Caleb’s fingers seem to seek out the ridges of bone and keratin on instinct, rubbing in a motion Mollymauk can only distantly feel. 

 

“Whatever you want to do.” He murmurs. “I think you’ll find I can be  _ very _ accommodating.” 

 

Caleb smiles, looks up at him through his dark lashes. 

 

“That does not surprise me.” His hand shifts, thumb dropping to the corner of Mollymauk’s mouth, thumbnail catching gently on his upper lip. He hesitates, fingers rubbing gently at the curve of Molly’s jaw. “You will stop me,” He says, very quietly. “If I do something wrong.” 

 

It isn’t a question, but Mollymauk nods, feeling the contact of Caleb’s fingers like brands. He lets his lips part, and the movement causes Caleb to slip, thumb dipping just barely against the slick inside of Molly’s mouth before it retreats and Caleb makes a noise on the tail end of his next exhale, body going very still for a moment. 

 

Mollymauk swallows, and Caleb so, so slowly runs his thumb along his lower lip, watching in something like awe. Mollymauk knows how to put on a show; he takes pleasure in it. It’s natural to let his eyes fall half-shut, let his tongue rest against his lower lip so that Caleb really has no choice but to press his thumb just barely into the wet heat of his mouth.

 

Usually, Molly would prefer the roles to be reversed. Pressing Caleb back against the rough bark of a tree, splitting his thighs with a knee and pinning his mouth open to _ lick into  _ feels like a very,  _ very _ good idea. Caleb is flighty, though, even now his breathing has a sharp edge to it that could be hysterical if he turned it up a few degrees. Mollymauk feels like a guiding hand here is more use than a demanding one.

 

And really, this is enjoyable enough all on its own. Mollymauk grips Caleb’s sides, thumbs against the too-prominent blades of his hips and his heart almost  _ hurts,  _ adrenaline and nerves and anticipation setting off some magical reaction that has him feeling almost giddy, reckless with it. Caleb runs his thumb over the sharpened point of a canine, hooks his thumb carefully behind Mollymauk’s lower teeth and, well.

 

Mollymauk never claimed not to be selfish. 

 

Caleb’s thumb slips across his cheek as he leans in, leaves a slick trail that cools uncomfortably cold in the night air and Mollymauk finds Caleb’s mouth half-open on an exclamation, feels the sound die in his mouth and if he thought Caleb would be hesitant or unresponsive then he’d never been more pleased to be wrong. 

 

Caleb kisses like a drowning man, frantic enthusiasm over finesse, both hands clasped behind Mollymauk’s head and fingernails catching on his horns, his hair. His teeth catch on Molly’s lips and tongue and Mollymauk feels like it’s entirely up to him to stop any unfortunate teeth-on-teeth collisions, because he’d bet  _ gold _ on the fact that Caleb couldn’t care less about it. 

 

Mollymauk buries his fingers into the hair at the back of Caleb’s head, tightens his grasp enough that he knows Caleb can  _ feel _ it and, tastes the sound Caleb makes more than he hears it. Caleb’s fingernails dig into Mollymauk’s scalp and for a moment Mollymauk wonders wildly why they didn’t do this before, why wasn’t this the  _ first fucking thing _ they did when things got weird. 

 

He tightens his grip on Caleb’s waist, pulls him forward because Mollymauk is tactile and he likes contact and he likes  _ Caleb _ , gods. He presses the weight of his hips into Caleb’s, and they’re both too skinny, too many sharp edges to really fit together but it feels  _ beautiful _ . Caleb gasps, a real, sudden inhale as if the breath was knocked out of him and he rocks forwards against Mollymauk in a movement that sends pure, liquid heat down Molly’s spine. 

 

Caleb stops kissing him, breaths in hard, rapid pants against Mollymauk’s cheek and his whole body stutters backwards, putting an inch or so of space between them and Molly gentles his hands, runs his fingers through the strands of Caleb’s hair. 

“Too much?” He asks, and his lips feel raw, voice cracking somewhere low in his chest. Caleb takes a breath that shakes in his chest and nods.

 

“Sorry,” Caleb’s voice is unsteady, Mollymauk hushes him. “It’s just-”

 

“A lot, I know. You don’t need to apologise.” 

 

They draw apart slowly, and Molly takes a moment to steady himself before he smiles, slipping his hands into his pockets so Caleb knows he has no intention of touching him. Caleb runs his hand through his hair, over his face, pausing to press his fingertips into his bruised lips. A laugh bursts from him, a bubbly little sound that Mollymauk hasn’t heard before.

 

“Well, that.” He begins, and clears his throat. “That was one way of figuring things out.”

 

Molly tilts his head in agreement, grinning. 

 

“I hope it didn’t just add to your complications?” He says, and Caleb shakes his head. 

 

“Ah, no. I think this has definitely cleared some things up.”

 

“Always glad to be of service.” He says, “although, I suspect the others will not hesitate to kill me if they hear I spent much of my night doing this rather than, you know, keeping watch.” 

 

Caleb nods, looking needlessly sheepish and gods, Mollymauk likes him so much. 

 

“Then I will return to bed and leave you to your watch, Mollymauk.”

 

He takes a stumbling step backwards towards their camp, before turning around and disappearing through the trees, and Mollymauk takes a moment to fully collect himself before he follows. 

 

Caleb wordlessly settles down for the night, and before long seems just as comfortably asleep as everybody else. It’s a good thing, Mollymauk thinks. At the very least he was able to get a decent night’s rest now without all of the added worries going through his head. Mollymauk sits with his back to the fire, looking out into the dark, dark woods.

 

Yasha sighs, and he knows immediately she’s awake. He glances over to her, only for long enough to see her arched brow, the smug hints of a smile tugging at her lips.

 

She is his best friend, and he absolutely fucking  _ hates  _ it when she’s right. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
